


Poison

by phoenixquest



Series: Ryndoril and Ondolemar [14]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sick Character, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 13:05:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18011456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixquest/pseuds/phoenixquest
Summary: Ondolemar's been poisoned, and Ryndoril does his best to care for him.





	Poison

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, really this was an excuse to have Ryn take care of a sick Ondolemar. It doesn't really have a specific spot in the storyline or anything, just pre-Dragonborn Elf. Maybe it's a little silly, and definitely it's self-indulgent, and perhaps it's even a bit unlikely, but hopefully you'll enjoy it, too!

“You always win anymore,” Cyndil grumbled to Rolain. The two Thalmor guards were playing an evening game of dice, relaxing in the absence of any other duties; the Commander was busy with his work and didn’t need them for anything, so they were more than happy to stay away from him.

“All it takes is a bit of skill,” Rolain said smugly, resetting their game. “Want to get beat again?”

“Not like I have anything else to do,” Cyndil sighed. “I swear, sometimes even a few of these _Nord_ women look appealing…”

“I know what you mean,” Rolain smirked. “That Hroki down at the inn…”

“Bit young, isn’t she?” Cyndil asked, arching an eyebrow.

“She doesn’t dress like it,” Rolain snickered, and Cyndil let out a short laugh.

“Too true, friend,” he agreed. “Those priestesses of Dibella, too. You know the rumors about them.”

“I do,” Rolain said, a little longingly. “One of these days, I may very well give in and pay them a visit, you know.”

“I’d be right behind you,” chuckled Cyndil. 

A sudden, loud noise – almost a groan – from Ondolemar’s room made both guards freeze and stare at each other for a moment. They heard nothing else.

“You think we should check on him?” Rolain asked in a hushed voice, on high alert. 

Cyndil paused, thinking.

“It could be that Bosmer snuck in again,” he reasoned. They knew he’d done so without their knowledge before, but as he was clearly not inclined to harm the Commander, they didn’t bother trying to deal with him. Neither of them could fathom the friendship, but it certainly wasn’t worth the effort to try and keep the Bosmer away.

“I thought he was out of town,” Rolain said worriedly. “I think we should check.”

“All right,” Cyndil nodded, and both mer got to their feet, heading slowly for the door to Ondolemar’s room. 

Rolain knocked.

“My lord? Are you all right?” he called. They heard a definite pained groan from inside the room and glanced at each other in worry. “Commander?” There was no answer this time.

“Commander Ondolemar, we’re coming in,” Cyndil warned, not wanting to risk walking in on the Altmer being… _indecent_. After waiting a moment to ensure the elf’s privacy, Cyndil opened the door.

They found Ondolemar on the ground, clutching his stomach and looking pale as moonstone.

“Commander!” Rolain said, rushing over to his superior. “What in Auri-El’s name - ?”

“Poison,” Ondolemar managed through gritted teeth. He was in immense pain from whatever he’d just consumed. “In the beef.”

“Poison?” Cyndil asked, shocked. He picked up the partially-eaten beef from Ondolemar’s plate and sniffed it, but could detect nothing. “In your food, my lord? But who - ?”

“Do you have any potions?” Rolain asked the older elf. “Anything to fix this?”

“No,” Ondolemar croaked. “The apothecary – “

“I’m going,” Cyndil said at once. “Stay with him, Rolain.” 

The guard nodded, and Cyndil hurried off.

Cyndil quickly checked for the court mage, but didn’t see the elf or his nephew, so he went ahead toward the apothecary. Once he was outside, he saw it was actually quite late; he hadn’t known the time, but now realized the apothecary was likely to be closed. Cursing when it in fact was, he tried pounding on the door, but received no answer.

“No lollygaggin’,” a gruff guard said as he passed, making Cyndil glare at him impatiently, trying to think what else to do. 

He wasn’t exactly fond of Ondolemar; how could he be, with the way the Commander thought himself better than even his fellow Altmer? But he didn’t want anything to _happen_ to him, either. He and Rolain were sworn to protect him, after all, and it wasn’t as though he was the _worst_ employer they could have. There was a measure of respect there, if not friendliness.

Ignoring the guard, Cyndil ran off once more, heading now for Vlindrel Hall. It was true the Bosmer was supposed to be out of town, but maybe – just maybe – he’d get lucky tonight. He didn’t know where else to go, but knowing the Bosmer was an alchemist he was sure he could help the Commander. Cyndil was sure he _would_ , if he were around; the two were close friends, after all. Little though he liked the Bosmer, he saw no alternative.

Cyndil’s heart sank when he knocked on the Bosmer’s door and didn’t receive an answer right away. He waited hopefully for several long moments, but he had no luck. He was just about to turn and walk away when the door did open, and to his immense relief, the Bosmer stood there, dripping wet with a towel around his waist. Cyndil sneered; couldn’t the elf have the decency to dress himself before opening the door? Then he remembered the urgency of his situation – the Bosmer’s state of dress hardly mattered now.

“Thank Auri-El you’re here,” Cyndil said, still breathing hard from his run up the stairs. “We thought you were out of town.”

“I was,” Ryndoril frowned. “Just got back maybe half an hour ago. What’s wrong?”

“The Commander,” Cyndil explained. “He’s been poisoned.”

“Poisoned?” Ryndoril yelped. “How? With what? What’s going on?”

“It was in his dinner, I think,” Cyndil informed him quickly. “The court mage isn’t around and the apothecary is closed. Can’t you - ?”

“I’ll be right there,” Ryndoril said quickly. “I’ll do everything I can. Give me two minutes. Is he conscious?”

“He was when I left,” Cyndil said, “but clearly in pain.”

“Two minutes,” Ryndoril repeated, nodding as he shut the door. He hurried back through the house to his bedroom, throwing on a tunic and loose trousers with his worn pair of shoes before rushing to his alchemy laboratory. He cursed when he realized he didn’t have the ingredients he’d need to cure a poison; he gathered up the few things he had that might help and hoped they would do. He was rather lower on ingredients than usual, and he wished he’d bothered to rectify that now.

He was downright terrified, he had to admit; the Altmer had been _poisoned_? And Ryndoril had just gotten back into town! _What if he’d still been away?_ He forced himself not to dwell on those thoughts as he left the house, hurrying toward the Keep. How anyone could have managed to poison the Commander’s dinner, he didn’t know, but he damn well knew he’d be getting to the bottom of it as soon as Ondolemar was taken care of.

“You’ll be more comfortable on the bed,” one of the guards was saying as Ryndoril all but ran into Ondolemar’s room. “Come on.”

“Just get away from me,” Ondolemar moaned. “Leave me be!”

“He’s still awake?” Ryndoril asked in relief, hurrying to the Altmer spread out on the floor. Ondolemar was paler than Ryndoril had ever seen, and clearly trembling. It was a very good sign that the Altmer was still awake and alert, however, and Ryndoril relaxed a little.

“Ryn,” Ondolemar breathed, his pained gaze focusing on the Bosmer.

“Yeah, I’m here,” Ryndoril assured him kindly. “I can’t cure you tonight, but I can help. What did he eat?” he asked the guards.

“He said the beef,” Rolain replied, pointing to the bitten piece of meat on the table. Ryndoril picked it up and sniffed it; it just smelled like beef. “We tried that,” Rolain snapped, annoyed. “There’s nothing to smell.”

“I’m only checking,” Ryndoril said distractedly. In the absence of a scent, he bit off a tiny piece of the beef; it wasn’t the _best_ idea, he knew, but he also knew it wouldn’t affect him like it had Ondolemar, due to his natural resistance. As he chewed, he found it was very slightly bitter and he could tell at once that the poison was meant to make its target very sick; it wouldn’t kill right away, but would worsen with time. He spat it back out as soon as it was identified, not wanting to ingest more than he had to.

“Are you mad?” Cyndil demanded. 

“Bosmer have a resistance to poison,” Rolain reminded him. “Well?”

“It’s meant to make him ill and kill him slowly,” Ryndoril said, kneeling next to Ondolemar and going through his pack shakily. _If his guards hadn’t found him..._ “But as he ate so little of it, and you caught it right away, I can make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“You can?” Ondolemar asked hopefully. 

Ryndoril was dying to comfort the mer, but knew better than to do it obviously in front of his guards.

“I can,” Ryndoril said with a sorrowful smile, “but you’re in for a rough night, my friend.”

“Is there anything else we should do?” Cyndil asked.

“No,” Ryndoril said, shaking his head. He pulled out a restorative draught, uncorking it. “But he’ll be all right. He’ll need to rest; it’s probably better if you leave.”

“You expect us to just leave him like this?” Rolain asked angrily, showing more protectiveness than Ryndoril had ever seen from either guard.

“Do as he said,” Ondolemar snapped weakly. “Get out of here.”

“All right, fine,” Cyndil said coldly. “Be that way.” He made to leave and Rolain followed, still looking angry.

“Hey,” Ryndoril called to them, making them both turn. “Thank you,” the Bosmer said sincerely. “Thank you for looking out for him, and for coming to find me.” 

Rolain turned and stalked away, but Cyndil paused, staring appraisingly at the Bosmer.

“You’re welcome,” he finally said. “Just keep him alive, will you?”

“You have my word,” Ryndoril said solemnly. That seemed to placate the guard, who left then, shutting the door behind him.

“Ryn,” Ondolemar whimpered softly when they were alone.

“I know, love,” Ryndoril whispered, putting a hand on the Altmer’s forehead; he was burning up. “I’m sorry. Drink this,” he added, tipping the restorative potion into Ondolemar’s mouth. Ondolemar swallowed it obediently before moaning quietly again.

“What has it done to me?” Ondolemar asked shakily.

“It’s a compounded poison,” Ryndoril explained, brushing Ondolemar’s hair back from his sweaty face. “It’s intended to make you very ill until it kills you. But I’m going to fix it, don’t worry. Take this one,” he continued, holding out another small bottle. 

This potion was bitter and Ondolemar nearly spat it back out.

“More poison?” the Altmer choked.

“Not exactly,” Ryndoril said, returning to stroking his hair. “Just give that a moment, all right? I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t leave me,” Ondolemar begged, feeling pathetic.

“I’m not going to,” Ryndoril promised, getting to his feet. 

He looked around quickly, finally spotting a metal bucket by Ondolemar’s desk. He brought it over to where the Altmer was laying, and just in time; the elf retched, and Ryndoril quickly moved behind him to prop him up so he vomited into the bucket, holding the long golden hair out of the way.

“Ahh,” Ondolemar moaned weakly, panting for breath a moment later. “Gods…”

“It’s all right,” Ryndoril soothed. “Just try to relax, love. You’re all right.” He felt bad for the Altmer; it wasn’t pleasant to be sick, and less so to vomit, but it was the best way to rid him of the poison at the moment, without any cure or antidote immediately available.

“Isn’t there anything you can do?” Ondolemar breathed, leaning his head back against the Bosmer’s chest as he closed his eyes, trying to force his stomach to settle. He hated being sick, and he _hated_ anyone seeing him like this – least of all the Bosmer he had feelings for.

“I’m doing everything I can,” Ryndoril promised. “I don’t have the ingredients for a curing potion, and it takes several hours to make one. We just have to get the poison out of your system now, love.”

“Why do I have the feeling you mean more of this?” Ondolemar groaned, trying to suppress his nausea.

“Because I do,” Ryndoril said with a small smile, stroking the Altmer’s cheek. “I’m sorry. But I’ll be right here.”

“That’s part of the problem,” Ondolemar grumbled, though he felt a comfort in the Bosmer’s arms that he didn’t particularly want to lose.

“Why?” Ryndoril asked, startled. “Do you want me to go?”

“I don’t…you shouldn’t…ugh,” Ondolemar croaked. “I don’t want you to see me like this.” 

Ryndoril snorted in response, wondering if part of the flush on the Altmer’s face was actually a blush.

“You’ve been poisoned, and you’re concerned about me seeing you get sick?” he asked, shaking his head. “There’s nothing to be _embarrassed_ about, you crazy elf.” 

Ondolemar blew out an annoyed breath; there was everything to be embarrassed about. Then again, he reasoned with himself, the Bosmer _had_ taken care of him in a weak moment before. He knew better than to think Ryndoril would laugh at him.

“I feel awful,” Ondolemar muttered. “Could you get me anything to drink?”

“Do you have any water in here?” Ryndoril asked, glancing around.

“In the pitcher by the bed,” Ondolemar said.

“Okay,” Ryndoril said. “Let’s get you over to the bed, then. You’ll be more comfortable there than on the hard ground.” 

Funny, Ondolemar thought, how the same suggestion from his guard had merely made him angry. 

“All right,” he agreed, and Ryndoril helped him to sit up. Before he could stand, however, he retched once more, emptying his stomach into the bucket again. “S-sorry,” he murmured shakily as he pulled away, noticing the Bosmer’s hand gripping his hair tightly to keep it out of the way.

“Shh,” Ryndoril said softly. “Don’t apologize, love. Come on.” 

This time Ondolemar thankfully made it to the bed. Ryndoril settled him, helping the Altmer get his stiff uniform off, and put a loose pair of trousers back on him for comfort.

“Thank you,” Ondolemar said quietly, looking incredibly tired.

“Of course, love,” Ryndoril said, pouring the Altmer a cup of water. 

He paused then; what if it had been poisoned, too? Unwilling to risk it, he got off the bed and dumped the whole pitcher into the Dwemer tub in the room, rinsing it and refilling it from the cold tap. Returning to the bed, Ryndoril helped the Commander drink the fresh water, settling Ondolemar back onto his pillows after he was done. 

“I’m sorry about this,” Ryndoril added softly. “I know it’s miserable.”

“Not your fault,” Ondolemar sighed. “I can’t believe…who did it?”

“I’m not sure,” Ryndoril replied, thinking of the image he’d found on the Altmer’s notes not long ago, “but I promise you I’ll find out. Tomorrow.” Nothing was as important as making sure the Altmer was all right _tonight_. He’d even considered breaking into The Hag’s Cure to see if Bothela had the potion or ingredients that he needed, but he was unwilling to leave Ondolemar. “Are you up to drinking another potion?”

“Will this one make me vomit, too?” Ondolemar asked distastefully. He was still trembling.

“No,” Ryndoril smiled. “Not this time. This one’s to give you more energy to deal with this.”

“All right, then,” Ondolemar agreed, and Ryndoril fed him that potion as well. “I thought you were out of town,” he asked after he swallowed.

“I was,” Ryndoril nodded. “I’d just gotten my bath and was getting ready to come visit you when your guard knocked on my door.”

“Lucky,” Ondolemar murmured. “You are a great source of luck for me, Ryn.”

“Thank the gods I seem to be,” Ryndoril nodded, stroking the Altmer’s hair gently. “I’m glad I was here.”

“As am I,” Ondolemar confessed. “That feels wonderful.”

“Good,” Ryndoril said with a small smile. “Just try to rest, love. You’re all right now, I promise.” 

Though he knew it was true – it was very unlikely anything would happen to the Altmer now – he still felt quite worried. It was so strange to see Ondolemar so weak and pale; he didn’t like it at all. 

With one last stroke of the Altmer’s hair, he got to his feet again.

“Where are you going?” Ondolemar asked at once. 

Ryndoril couldn’t help a small laugh – the Altmer was behaving a bit like a sick child.

“Not far, I swear,” he said. “I’m not leaving you tonight, love.”

“All right,” Ondolemar murmured, closing his eyes. 

Ryndoril went over to the door, stepping just outside it to address Ondolemar’s guards. Rolain said they’d checked the kitchen, but found nothing incriminating; everyone else was already in bed, so it wasn’t likely they’d find anything at all that night.

“Don’t say anything to anyone,” Ryndoril cautioned. “Just pretend that nothing happened. If whoever did this thinks someone’s suspicious, we might never catch them. I’ll have a look around tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Rolain said, nodding curtly. “Then if you have no further need of us, we are going to retire.”

“He’s in good hands, I promise you that,” Ryndoril said sincerely. “I know what I’m doing.” 

With a nod at them both, he shut the door again, and turned to the Commander’s bathing area. Turning on the pipe for the cold water once more, he soaked down a washing cloth and wrung it out, bringing it over to Ondolemar’s bed and laying it across the Altmer’s forehead.

“Oh, Divines,” Ondolemar murmured in relief as he felt it. “That feels wonderful.”

“Good,” Ryndoril smiled. “Anything else I can get you, love?”

“Just…just stay with me,” Ondolemar pleaded.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Ryndoril promised, and he brought the Altmer’s hand up to kiss his fingers.

“Where were you this time?” Ondolemar asked, his eyes closed and the smallest of smiles on his face. He was still trembling, though it seemed to have subsided a little. 

Ryndoril grinned; he could tell the Altmer wanted a story.

“Well, it started out as a typical camp of bandits,” Ryndoril began, keeping his voice soft rather than animated as he usually would. He told his story to Ondolemar, embellishing here and there for effect to please the Altmer.

“And then there was this dragon,” he finally said, and this part was no embellishment. “Lydia and I tried to hide from it, but it caught sight of us anyway.”

“A dragon?” Ondolemar murmured. It was the first time he’d spoken. “Truly?”

“Yeah,” Ryndoril nodded. “A dragon. It spotted us, and it started to come for us. I didn’t know what to do – neither of us have fought a dragon before. And then Lydia just yells, ‘run!’ and so we ran. The dragon managed to get us with a bit of fire, but we finally took shelter in a cave. It lost interest and finally flew away, leaving us alone.”

“Incredible,” Ondolemar said quietly. 

“Incredibly _lucky_ ,” Ryndoril said. “I haven’t been that close to a dragon since Helgen.” 

“I’d just prefer Helgen be the closest I ever got to one, thank you,” Ondolemar replied, making a face.

“Agreed,” Ryndoril chuckled. “How are you feeling?” he asked, stroking the Altmer’s arm.

“Terrible,” Ondolemar breathed. “And too cold.” 

Ryndoril could still feel the Altmer was burning up with fever, but he got a spare fur to cover him a little anyway. Before sitting back on the edge of the bed, he grabbed another couple of potions. He wished that he were a healer, really; this was such basic treatment, and a healer could surely do better, but without the use of a potion to cure the poison altogether, he didn’t know what else to do.

Ondolemar drank the bitter potion again, groaning as he realized what it was.

“I know,” Ryndoril said sympathetically, “but it’s all I can do.” 

He pulled the Altmer’s hair back again, this time securing it with a strip of leather from the nightstand into a low ponytail. It wasn’t much later that Ondolemar started to gag, and Ryndoril once more helped him up and supported him as he heaved into the bucket. Ryndoril smoothed the few loose strands of hair back, gently rubbing Ondolemar’s back. Gods, but it was hard to see him like this. 

“Divines,” Ondolemar whimpered, sinking back into Ryndoril again a moment later, looking pained. “I haven’t felt like this since I got sick when I was twelve.”

“I’m sorry, love,” Ryndoril soothed, stroking the Altmer’s face as Ondolemar’s head rested against his chest. “Do you want more water?”

“Please,” Ondolemar croaked. 

Ryndoril moved over so he could get the cup of water he’d poured without jostling the Altmer too much. He helped him drink the rest of it, then let Ondolemar settle against him once more. 

“You must think me a child,” Ondolemar said, a bitter tone to his voice.

“Of course not,” Ryndoril murmured, kissing the top of Ondolemar’s head gently. “You’ve been poisoned, love; of course you don’t feel well.”

“But I am reacting like a child,” Ondolemar grumbled.

“Throwing up isn’t fun, no matter how old you are,” Ryndoril argued. “You’re fine, Ondolemar.”

“Disgusting,” Ondolemar said, making a face. “I feel disgusting. I don’t want anyone to see me like this.”

“Well, you’re just going to have to tolerate me, because I’m not letting you deal with this alone,” Ryndoril said teasingly, pressing a kiss to Ondolemar’s temple. “At least I made your guards go away.”

“Thank the Divines,” Ondolemar muttered. “You’re being very kind, Ryn,” he added quietly. The Bosmer’s comfort meant more to him than he could ever say.

“Yeah, well, I like you a little,” Ryndoril teased again. 

Ondolemar started to laugh, but it seemed to make him sick because he threw up again. 

“Sorry,” Ryndoril said apologetically, cradling the Altmer’s head after. “No laughing.”

“Clearly not,” Ondolemar said, his voice rough. “Auri-El, this is miserable.”

“I know,” Ryndoril said sympathetically, getting up and refilling the cup of water. “But on the bright side, it’ll all be over in a few hours…and then I can be sure to make a stock of curing potions for you to keep.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Ondolemar protested at once, but Ryndoril shushed him.

“I’m going to,” he said at once. “They aren’t that difficult to make, just time-consuming. I rarely keep a supply on hand because I’m resistant to poison, but I should’ve thought of giving you some.” He helped the Altmer drink more water.

“Thank you, Ryndoril,” Ondolemar breathed, settling back onto his pillows. “I cannot thank you enough for your kindness.”

“Well, you’re welcome,” Ryndoril smiled, sitting next to the Altmer again and brushing his fingers along Ondolemar’s arm. “I wish I could do more. But I’m trying.”

“Yes,” Ondolemar said, his eyes fluttering shut. “Divines, I’m tired.”

“I bet you are,” Ryndoril nodded. “Have one more potion, and then you can go to sleep.”

“Another one?” Ondolemar protested.

“Just a restorative draught,” Ryndoril assured him. He uncorked the bottle and helped Ondolemar drink it as well before settling him comfortably on the bed, the fur still covering him.

He noticed the washing cloth on Ondolemar’s forehead had lost its chill, so he went over and rewet it with the cold water, then blew out most of the candles in the room before coming back to the bed.

“Mmm,” Ondolemar breathed at the cool touch. “Thanks.”

“Of course, love,” Ryndoril said, taking the Altmer’s fingers and kissing them again. “Just rest now. I’ll be right here.” He saw a small smile come over Ondolemar’s face at that.

“Do you have any more stories?” Ondolemar asked, and Ryndoril laughed. 

“My stories aren’t good at putting you to sleep,” he teased.

“Then one I already know,” Ondolemar suggested. He really just wanted to hear the Bosmer’s voice, no matter what it was saying.

“All right,” Ryndoril grinned. He hadn’t gotten very far into his story about hunting a bear when he could tell Ondolemar was asleep.

Ryndoril stayed on the side of the bed, very gently running his fingers over the Altmer’s arm or hand, and reaching up to stroke his face now and then. He hated that his lover had to be in misery; he wished desperately that there was something he could do to fix it. At least it wouldn’t last that much longer.

Even while sick as he was, the elf was beautiful, Ryndoril mused. It was a little strange seeing his hair pulled back like that, but the Bosmer actually found it rather attractive. As usual, Ryndoril could hardly tear his eyes away from Ondolemar; his lover was gorgeous, and even just the few days he’d been away this time had been too many. He kept turning cold at the thought of what could have happened if he hadn’t been around; it was late enough no one else was around to help, and he knew well enough that the Commander wasn’t exactly popular in Markarth. Few would _want_ to help.

This thought invariably led to anger; who the hell had poisoned him, who had been _allowed_ to poison him? How did this ever even happen? Whoever had dared to harm the elf that he loved so very much was going to pay dearly, of that much he was certain.

Sometime during Ryndoril’s musings, Ondolemar shifted uncomfortably, letting out a small whimper. The Bosmer’s head jerked back to the elf’s face.

“Ondolemar?” he whispered.

“No…we’re done for,” Ondolemar mumbled, his lips barely moving. “Auri-El, save us…” 

Frowning, Ryndoril shook the Altmer’s shoulder. Much as he needed to rest, Ryndoril didn’t want him plagued by nightmares.

“Love, wake up,” he said more loudly. “It’s only a nightmare.”

“Help,” Ondolemar croaked, and Ryndoril shook him harder.

“Ondolemar!” he said louder. “Wake up!” 

Finally, the Altmer did wake up; he jerked a little as his eyes opened, then focused on Ryndoril. 

“Ryn,” he breathed. “Gods. The dragon…”

“It was only a dream, love,” Ryndoril soothed, brushing his fingers over Ondolemar’s cheek. “There’s no dragon here.”

“Helgen,” Ondolemar said. “I was at Helgen.” 

Ryndoril frowned. Had his story prompted this?

“I take it your getaway that day wasn’t easy?” he asked, hoping talking it out might help. Ondolemar shook his head a little.

“No,” he murmured. “We tried to duck into a tower to lose the beast – the Ambassador, myself, and her guard,” he explained. Ryndoril listened patiently, hoping that talking about it would help the mer. “But it crushed in most of the tower, and we were trapped.”

“I’m sorry,” Ryndoril said sympathetically. _He_ hadn’t been cornered by the beast, at least. “How did you get away?”

“After it covered us with fire, it flew off,” Ondolemar explained, clearing his throat slightly. “I don’t know why. But…we ran for it.”

“I see,” Ryndoril said. “Well, you’re all right now. Don’t worry, love.”

“Yes,” Ondolemar breathed, shutting his eyes again and trying to calm himself. “Apologies.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” Ryndoril said gently, and he kicked off his shoes to climb into bed next to the Altmer. He’d cooled down a bit now, he noticed. “Do you want to go back to sleep?”

“I do,” Ondolemar said tiredly. “Stay with me, Ryn.” 

Ryndoril smiled, shaking his head fondly.

“I’ve told you, I’m not leaving,” he promised, lying down next to Ondolemar. “Just rest.” 

He kissed the elf’s temple, pleased to note his head wasn’t nearly so hot, and gently rubbed Ondolemar’s arm. Before long, both elves ended up asleep.

*****

Ondolemar woke up twice more to be sick; Ryndoril, comforting as always, held him and soothed him however he could. When the Commander finally awoke the next morning, he felt much more like himself, the night before now just a bad memory, though he still felt rather worn from the experience.

He turned his head to look at Ryndoril, fast asleep in the bed next to him. The kind, soothing, wonderful wood elf he’d come to care for. By the Divines, he would never be able to express how grateful he was for the Bosmer’s company.

Admittedly he was still a bit embarrassed; whatever Ryndoril said, Ondolemar was still not pleased that anyone else had seen him in such a state. Somehow, though, with the wood elf…it wasn’t that bad. Indeed, the knowledge that Ryndoril had cared for him so devotedly and most certainly was not disgusted by him warmed his heart more than he would ever have imagined.

The Bosmer shifted in his sleep, causing a lock of red hair to fall over his perfect face. Ondolemar reached up to push it back where it belonged, keeping his touch gentle; he didn’t want to wake Ryndoril. He couldn’t stop himself brushing the Bosmer’s cheek with a few fingers as his hand slid away, and Ryndoril breathed deeply before his eyes fluttered open.

“Ondolemar,” he said with surprise, waking up quickly. “You look better.” 

Ondolemar smiled slightly.

“I feel better,” he replied. “I’m sorry to wake you. Go back to sleep.”

“No, no,” Ryndoril said, sitting up at once. “I’m fine. How are you doing? Do you need anything?”

“I’m doing all right, Ryn,” Ondolemar assured the elf. “Feeling a bit worn, and quite hungry. But I’m fine.”

“I’ll get you some breakfast,” Ryndoril said at once. “Do you need anything else?”

“No,” Ondolemar said. “You don’t have to keep taking care of me, Ryn, I’m _fine_.”

“Well, I’m going to,” Ryndoril argued. He reached up to touch Ondolemar’s forehead; he felt normal again. “I didn’t do any of this because I _had_ to.”

“I know,” Ondolemar replied softly. “I truly cannot thank you enough. You were wonderful to me, Ryn.” 

Ryndoril smiled, leaning in to kiss Ondolemar’s brow.

“No thanks necessary,” he said as he pulled away. “I’m happy to do it. I’ll be right back,” he added, slipping on his shoes as he got out of bed.

The Bosmer made his way through the quiet Keep to the kitchen; it was just after sunrise, and almost no one was awake yet. He passed a sleepy guard, who nodded at him in recognition, but found the kitchen quite empty.

Ryndoril took a moment to look around for anything incriminating; he didn’t think he’d find anything there in the open, but he checked anyway. Sure enough, nothing was there. He took a loaf of bread from the day before and a few pieces of fruit, stealing a chunk of venison for himself, and quickly made his way back to the Altmer’s room. 

Ondolemar was sitting up, clearly having cleaned himself up in Ryndoril’s brief absence. The wood elf grinned, unsurprised; the Altmer were to be a very fastidious bunch.

“Breakfast is served,” Ryndoril said grandly, handing Ondolemar the loaf of bread. The Altmer chuckled, taking it, and Ryndoril set the two apples he’d brought between them as well. “Just eat slow,” he added, “in case it’s too much.”

“I know, Ryn,” Ondolemar said. “I’m no idiot.”

“Sorry,” Ryndoril said sheepishly, his ears reddening. “I just…can’t help it.”

Ondolemar had no trouble keeping his breakfast down, much to his relief. Ryndoril convinced him to take it easy that day, to stay in and rest; Ondolemar tried to get the Bosmer to agree to stay as well, but Ryndoril laughed that he had things to do.

“I still have to figure out who did this to you, love,” he reminded the elf. “I’ll come back when I’m finished. I promise.”

“All right,” Ondolemar grumbled. 

He rather thought the Bosmer would need some rest after getting so little sleep the previous night, but he could tell Ryndoril was determined. He very much wanted to find out who was behind it all as well, so he couldn’t really argue.

The Bosmer brought him another loaf of bread before leaving for good, telling him he wasn’t to eat anything else until Ryndoril himself returned. The Bosmer explained that he’d tasted the bread himself and there was no trace of poison, but he wasn’t going to take any chances with other food.

Ondolemar watched him go, wondering what he’d managed to do to deserve this amazing elf.

*****

By evening, Ryndoril had his man. The cook’s assistant in the Keep’s kitchen, Rondach, turned out to be one of the Forsworn agents still within the city, and Ryndoril had his suspicions that the man had been the one to make the crude drawing on Ondolemar’s notes, too.

Once Ryndoril had found the poison right by where Rondach slept, he’d confronted the man; he’d eagerly confessed to his crime, saying it served Ondolemar right for trying to meddle with the Forsworn, and expressed regret that he was unable to do anything to Ryndoril, too.

Ryndoril had suggested feeding him to a bear in pieces; Ondolemar, however, took a more practical approach. The man was currently in the Markarth prisons, awaiting execution – Ondolemar had no regard for him or any of the Forsworn, of course, but after such recent trouble with Ryndoril being accused of murder, he didn’t think it a smart idea to cause more trouble. The Jarl wasn’t happy about doing something that benefitted the Thalmor, but as the man was a Forsworn and _had_ attempted murder, he couldn’t very well deny it.

Ryndoril convinced the Altmer to come to Vlindrel Hall that night, cooking him dinner from his own stock of food and letting him rest away from the Keep for an evening. He’d also made several potions to cure poison after buying the ingredients from the apothecary, insisting that Ondolemar keep every one of them. Ondolemar insisted on paying Ryndoril for them; it wasn’t right, he said, to simply take them because of the Bosmer’s talent. He’d had to pay for the ingredients, he deserved _some_ compensation.

“I can think of better compensation than coin,” Ryndoril smirked. Ondolemar smiled at the Bosmer’s implication; yes, there were far better things to offer, and he thought it a grand idea.

**Author's Note:**

> First, I know the dialogue between the guards at the beginning is problematic; if you've read any of this series so far, you know the guards aren't exactly model people. 
> 
> Second, I love comments and kudos!


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